A Conversation With Death
He came to me on quiet
feet. His hands were warm, his presence strangely comforting.
“I thought you would be cold,” I
said to him. “I thought you would be like a heavy cloak of ice. But you are so
very warm. You should be cold and dark, not gilded with dusky twilight and
scented with the fragrance of tranquility.”
“There is peace here, my child,”
Death said to me. “You have only to take my hand and let it be done. There will
be no more suffering for you. I will ease your pain.”
“The pain,” I said and the tears
began. “If only I could feel it! But I cannot. I can only lie here in the
numbness and watch the world go on around me. It is why I called for you. You
alone can help me feel the pain again. And you alone can then take it away. But
I was afraid. I thought you would be cold and dark and ugly. I did not expect
you to be so warm and beautiful.”
“There is beauty in the darkness,”
Death said. “Nothing will ever hurt you again, my child. You will ever be safe
in my arms.”
I held Death’s hand. I looked into
his dark, beautiful eyes. I saw my reflection there. Saw myself as I wished to
be. Peaceful and serene. There was nothing to fear there. The dark was not a
scary place. There were others there. I had fleeting glimpses of them during my
brief entrance into Death’s deep, deep eyes.
They waited for me, arms outstretched,
beckoning me to come. . .come and rest with them.
“We will care for you,” they seemed
to say in unison. “You will never be alone again. You will ever be safe with
us.”
Legions of them, holding out their
hands. Warm hands. Hands that would never strike out in anger. Hands that would
never hurt. Hands that would love. Arms that would hold.
I had only to lift my own hand and
draw the blade and those arms would enfold me, keep me safe from all harm. I
had only to draw the blade and my suffering would end.
“I am afraid,” I said and Death
smiled indulgently.
“I know, my child,” he answered.
“Everyone is. No one wants to see me when I come. They cringe away in fear
because they do not understand me. It is a pitiful thing to be so
misunderstood.”
His hands lay open before me. The
tiny blade gleamed, a sliver of brilliant light.
“You have only to take it,” he said.
“One swift stroke, a brief moment of pain, and then the warmth of your life
flowing into me. I will take you in my arms and hold you close. I will cradle
you like a babe against my breast and you will be safe. Always safe.”
I took the blade. It glittered in my
hand. I stared at it for a long, long time.
Drawn once, across tender flesh, and
then would come the pain I longed to feel. And after the pain, as my blood ran
like a river into the folds of Death’s black robes, would come the peace.
No more suffering. No more pain. No
more bruises. No more threats. No more whippings. No more hateful words to pick
apart my already shattered heart.
“I do not know,” I said as I began
to cry again. “I just do not know if I can do this.”
“You can, my child.” Death reached
out and caressed my cheek. Beneath the heat I felt a tiny splinter of cold. “A
single stroke and your suffering ends.”
I held the blade carefully, tested
the edge, watched the blood trickle down my finger. Warm. Sticky. Bright red.
And there was pain. Finally, there
was that tiny sting of pain.
“You see,” he said. “It is so
simple.” He traced a thin fingernail across my wrist and a tiny line appeared.
“Right here,” he went on, his voice low, seductively calm. “Just here, where I
have made the mark. One swift stroke and it will be done.”
The blade was poised. The line had
been drawn. It glimmered, as though lit from within. My heart beat fast and
wild. My blood was so close to the surface now. It throbbed under my skin, its
desperate pulse thudding as it waited. It called out to me, begged me to set it
free, to let it find its way out of the confines of my body.
“Free us,” my blood cried. “When we
are free, you will be free.”
The blade touched my skin, my hand
shook. And it was cold. So very, very cold. Not warm, as Death’s hands had
been, but cold; cold as ice from the Arctic Sea.
I faltered. Death sighed.
“I cannot,” I said sadly. “I
cannot.”
“Very well,” Death said, the
disappoint evident in his deep, dark eyes. “Some other time.”
Author's Note: This came out of the mind of a character I was once developing as an original character in a fan fiction for Law & Order: Criminal Intent. It was intended to be a journal entry of hers, however the story I was working on stalled on me and I never got it going. This piece remains as a stand-alone so I thought I would share it.
